


Aswe the Wanderer

by Voidbox_Ace



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Babies, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grounder Culture, Nightbloods, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Parenthood, The Conclave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 18:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12941595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidbox_Ace/pseuds/Voidbox_Ace
Summary: The life of a grounder woman, Aswe. She's not the strongest, the brightest or the most important, but does that mean her life doesn't matter?





	Aswe the Wanderer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer; I don't own shit!
> 
> Also, a warning; there is brief but slightly graphic mention of posthumous mutilation. If that's likely to upset you beyond reason, please don't read. 
> 
> The numbers serving to break up the text a bit are Aswe's age at that point in the story. I'm not really sure if that's clear, hence the clarification.

15

 

Aswe's first child was an accident, born when she was young and carefree from a night of passion. She welcomed the chance to raise a child, despite her youth. She gathered everything she could think a babe would ever need, from a cradle she carved herself from dark, fragrant wood, to blankets and rattles and every soft thing she could get her hands on. She asked advice from every mother in the village in place of her own long gone, until the women would roll their eyes every time they saw her in good-natured exasperation. She was a hunter, and her father a trader. Her child would live well, she was sure of it.

He was born on a warm spring morning while birds sang and flowers bloomed. His cries were loud and strong. She called him Luka and kissed the dark skin of his brow. When the healer pricked his thumb and drew out a tiny drop of black blood, Aswe swelled with pride. It was a great honor to give life to a nightblood. She laid him to rest in the cradle she had carved for him and watched his small, sweet face while he slept.

Her home was a place of warmth and life, her son was her greatest joy, and her father's as well. Luka grew to run and play in the trees with the other children. He was strong for his age, and always smiling. His warm brown eyes were kind, and they sparkled with wonder whenever she told him stories of the clans, of distant battles and mighty warriors. One day, she told him, he would be like those warriors, mighty and courageous.

 

20

 

In his fifth year, the fleimkepa came to take him to Polis, to train with the other nightbloods. Aswe watched him go with pride and sadness. It was an honor. Her father spent his days nights whittling by the fire where he used to hold his grandson on his lap and tell him tales of the people he had met until he fell asleep, rocking and muttering under his breath. Her home was too quiet, no laughter echoed in the hall and no children ran and played underfoot.

A quiet month was more than enough for the hunter, so Aswe packed a handful of her belongings and followed her son to Polis. She found work feeding the commander's warriors, and she watched her son grow from afar. Luka smiled at her whenever he saw her. He played and sparred with the other nightbloods, getting underfoot in the market and the stables.

She wasn't supposed to keep in touch, so she kept her distance, but she was allowed to leave gifts for the nightbloods. Aswe often left them gifts, and she delighted in seeing them put to use. An older nightblood girl wearing a pair of gloves she'd stitched the stars into. The littlest nightblood boy wearing the flowers she'd left braided into his hair. A younger blonde girl carrying the fine dagger she'd traded a prize stag's antlers for.

In a way, she came to love all of them from afar. The oldest girl was harsh and cold, but was putty in the the younger ones' hands. The littlest boy was soft and gentle, with a shy little smile. The small blonde girl was always getting herself into trouble, but she always got herself out of it too. The oldest boy, perhaps twelve when she'd first arrived, was a withdrawn, thoughtful child. There was a small, dark girl with wild hair who brought an air of adventure with her wherever she went. Then there was her Luka, of course, kind and steady and always there with a smile of encouragement for his fellows.

 

23

 

Three years she'd lived in Polis, but then the war with between Trikru and Azgeda, always there in some form or another, had turned brutal. Raids tore apart the trikru lands, and villages were razed to the ground. Warriors and armies were thrown together in haste. Battles were fought amidst people's homes and towns. Innocent blood was spilled on both sides. The commander rode to defend people the people of Tondisi, and five long days after, his body rode back into Polis on a litter. Heda died in the night, and the conclave was called.

Aswe wasn't allowed inside the temple of the flame, but she stood at it's gates and held a vigil through the night. Luka gave her a bright smile when he was ushered in along with one of his fellow nightbloods. A lifetime later, despite what the unmoved moon said, the victor emerged. The small blonde girl stared without seeing as she was pulled along with the fleimkepa, all the mischief she'd once held beaten out of her. In her shaking hands there was a fine dagger dripping with Luka's dark blood, and Aswe felt her heart die that day. In the end, it was the oldest girl who the flame chose, Hestia kom Trishanakru.

Aswe watched, numb, as the new commander ascended. The fleimkepa guarded the girl like a hound as supplicants came and went with gifts and well wishes. When all others had gone, she felt compelled to rise. Her feet took her to the foot of the commander's dais. She met the girl's eyes up close for the first time, and found them to be a bright blue. Her wounded heart remembered her fondness for this girl, as it did all the nightbloods, and she said nothing, but she bowed deeply.

“Aswe kom Trikru.” The young commander bowed her head to her of all people. “You were Luka's mother, weren't you.”

Aswe said nothing, only looking up to meet the girl's eyes. She had never spoken to any of the nightbloods, it was forbidden. It hadn't occurred to her that they knew her name, even if Luka had mentioned that she was his mother.

“This was yours.” The commander slipped a sheath from her belt and offered it to her. Aswe knew the blade when she saw it, even if it had been wiped clean.

“It was a gift, heda.” Aswe rose and turned to leave, but the girl bolting up from her throne stole her attention again. Hestia glanced down at the knife, trying and failing to maintain an air of calm. She saw the same uncertain warmth that the girl had often directed at her fellow nightbloods hidden in her features, and it struck her that Hestia thought of her as family, in a way. “Keep the knife, ai yongun. I'll be back for it one day.”

“I hope you will.” The small, scared girl slipped away under the mask of Heda and the knife returned to it's place on her belt.

Aswe bowed her head once more and left. She didn't return to her small, barren house on the outer edge of Polis. She didn't linger in the city that echoed with memories of the dead. She walked out of the gates and never looked back. She walked for days, only stopping to hunt and rest for a few hours at a time. She found her childhood home empty. Her father had been killed in the raids.

All Aswe took from the place was Luka's cradle and a small, elegant carved dog that her father had given her when she was a girl. She became a wanderer, drifting from place to place and catching echoes and hearsay of the new commander's doings, of the way the girl drove the Azgeda raiders from Trikru's lands. Villages were rebuilt, lives were renewed, but nothing would ever be the same. Not for her.

For many years, Aswe wandered. She met a man from Floukru and they fell in love. She stayed with him, giving up her wanderer's mantle for the warmth of a steady home, even if that home was an ever-rocking boat.

 

27

 

Aswe's second child was conceived on purpose, born from love into a family that was more than blood. She was hesitant to try for a child, but her beloved husband longed for one so. She gathered together all the things she knew the babe would need and dusted off the dark cradle she had carved more than twelve years before. She answered every nervous question her husband could come up with, often finding herself rolling her eyes in fond exasperation. The floukru had taken her in and they took good care of her, even teaching her to fish. This time would not be like the last, she assured herself.

Her second son was born on a calm winter evening, to the rocking of the ship and the sound of the waves. He howled loud enough to scare off the gulls. His father named him Leir, and she cradled him close to her chest. She almost refused to let the healer near him, but he was pricked on the fingertip as all newborns were. When she saw his dark blood, Aswe held him to her chest and wouldn't put him down. It was an honor, the healer told her, to give life to a nightblood. Her husband calmed her, laying their son in his brother's cradle and speaking softly of the mighty man he would become one day.

Their home was a happy place, where children played underfoot and her husband was always at her side. They taught Leir to fish together, always telling him stories. Aswe taught him told of her old home in Tondisi, of her father and friends. Sometimes, when he asked, she told his stories of Luka. To the dismay of her unhealed heart, those were his favorite. Her curious, mischievous son adored the older brother he'd never known. He was darker than Luka, his eyes nearly black, and he was always finding trouble. She feared for him more than she would ever say.

 

32

 

The first day of the winter Leir turned five, the fleimkepa came for him. There was no pride in watching her child leave this time. Instead, she clung to her little boy and begged the man for more time. Aswe considered slitting the fliemkepa's throat and running away with her son in tow, but there was nowhere for them to go. In the end, she watched from the shore while Leir waved excitedly back at her from the horse that was carried him off and into the trees. When her son was gone, Aswe cracked, weeping and wailing until she lost consciousness.

The absence of her child tore her to pieces, and it was all Aswe could do to remember to eat most days. She became a burden on her husband and her people. Long months after the fleimkepa had torn her child from her arms, Aswe packed a bag, tucked her father's carved dog into a pocket, took her cradle and re-strung her bow. She vanished in the night and returned to wandering the earth.

 

34

 

For two long years, Aswe wandered the land, never settling long enough to set down any roots. But one day as she sat and traded stories with a pair of warriors from trikru, she was reminded of a promise she had made once, many years past. It was second nature to pack up her things and take to the open road once more, but this time she had a goal.

Polis was as beautiful as she remembered, bustling with life. Nightbloods played underfoot in the market, and her heart lurched as she tried not to look too close. She saw him anyway. Leir's dark skin and nearly black eyes stood out to her like a warning sign, and his troublemaker's smile was still the same as it had been since he was a toddler. He looked too much like his father. She left before he could see her, heart unsteady in her chest.

Aswe found her way to Polis Tower with an easy familiarity she hadn't expected. It had been many years, but the streets of the city she had loved were much the same, still fresh in her mind. The guards gave her some trouble, but she was able to arrange for a meeting.

Hestia had grown into a regal young woman, even if she was still harsh and cold. Aswe strode into the throne room and bowed to her heda. To her surprise, the commander recognized her on sight, standing elegantly and raising a hand as if to halt her action.

“Aswe kom Floukru.” The commander smiled warmly, welcoming her back without needing so many words.

They spoke of many things. From Leir to Luka to the kindling wars between the northern clans that threatened to tear them all apart. For hours, they talked, losing track of the time. As night fell, the commander offered her a room in the tower and, once again, held out the knife that she'd once gifted to the nightbloods. This time, Aswe took the familiar blade before she left, promising to see Hestia the next morning at breakfast.

Hestia was killed in the night by an assassin, aided by one of her own guards. Her hands were cut off and her tongue was carved out of her throat; the tools of the peacemaker cut off of her body. Aswe knelt beside the pyre and watched the last remains of her old life turn to ashes. She didn't stay for the conclave. Instead, she wandered once more to the same place she had the last time she'd lost, truly lost, someone. Her father's home in Tondisi was still empty, filled with weeds and woodland creatures looking for a dry place to hide.

Aswe laid in her dusty, moldy bed for days, waiting for something to change. On the fourth day, a rapping came at the door. She found a small, dark girl of perhaps twelve staring at her as if she were a ghost. She probably looked the part. The girl told her that she'd been seen sneaking into the old trader's hut, and that her father, the chief, wanted to know why she was there. Aswe asked if they knew of the conclave yet, and if they knew who the new commander was. It wasn't Leir, and the dark girl confirmed that for her. It was an older boy from Podakru.

It was almost on a whim that Aswe decided to move back into her father's home. It took her weeks to clean the place up, and longer still to repair the neglected building itself. It took months for the people of Tondisi to stop looking at her like she was a madwoman. It took years for her life to settle into something comfortable and warm again. She felt her father's absence every day, and her sons', and her husband's, but she had a place in life again. She was the eccentric huntress who provided as much as she could and who never took any payment she thought would really be missed, even if it meant giving her kills away for free.

 

39

 

Aswe's third child was something of a miracle. She rarely took anyone to bed, and never for very long. She preferred to be alone with her thoughts, and at nearly forty, she hadn't thought she would be able to conceive again. She wasn't unhappy to welcome another child into her life. She'd been alone for many long years. So, once again, she set out the dark cradle she had carved twenty four years earlier for her firstborn and dug out all the furs, blankets and toys the child could need. Some were the same she'd first gotten for Luka, some were new. She tried not to get her hopes up. She wasn't as young as she'd once been, and she didn't want to be disappointed.

Aswe's water broke at sunrise on a warm summer day, and she fought a long battle to give birth. A storm descended as night fell, the thunder crashing among her screams. Her body tore open, and the healer could do nothing to put her back together.

Into the storm in the dead of the night, her daughter was born. The girl's cries were tiny and soft, and she hushed as soon as she was laid in her mother's arms. Aswe marveled at how small the babe was, brushing dark, downy locks with tentative fingertips. With each of her sons, she had felt pride and love in equal measure. With this girl, she didn't know what she felt.

Looking down at the tiny pink creature, Aswe finally knew what it was like to see herself, really see herself, in her child. Her boys had taken after their fathers, but this little one had her nose, her cheeks and her hair. She would be very beautiful one day, Aswe smiled and rocked her little one at the thought. Surely, such a beautiful girl would have people falling in love with her right and left. The girl sucked her own tiny fingers, content to lay there staring up at her. She worried for a moment that there was something wrong. Surely the babe must be hungry, but she didn't cry for food. She could be sick. Aswe hardened her heart as much as she could to the tiny, pretty thing in her arms and turned to the woman who had once found her in her father's abandoned cabin, now the chief of Tondisi herself.

“Bring me a knife.” Aswe tried not to notice the way her daughter stirred unhappily at her hard tone, or the soft coos as the girl raised a drool-covered hand towards her face. The knife that was pressed into her weak hand was the same fine dagger that had taken Luka from her, and that she had received from Hestia the day she died, just before the conclave that ended Leir's life. A single prick was all she needed.

A tiny smear of black blood marred the blade, and all of Aswe's budding hopes for her daughter turned to ash in her mouth.

“I die this night, and to bring life to a nightblood.” Aswe looked down at her little girl with a broken heart cracking anew. Her daughter's life would end at five years old, as her brother's lives had ended. “What a waste.”

The young chief sputtered irately beside her. After all, it was an honor to give life to a nightblood, but Aswe had no time for the woman's idealism. Her body was rent apart, bleeding still despite the healer's best efforts, and her daughter was a nightblood.

“Shof op, Indra.” Aswe rocked her newborn girl in her arms, amazed that such a soft, small creature could exist. Already too quiet, she would be a thinker. Beautiful and sweet. There were so many lives this girl could have lived, if only Aswe hadn't been cursed to bear only nightbloods. She wished for a life where this little one could have met her brothers, where her children could have grown up together and happy. Luka would have been so happy to have a little sister, Aswe knew in her heart. Leir would have taught the little girl how to make so much trouble. Tears slipped unbidden down her face.

“What will you call her?” Indra knelt beside her bed, holding her shoulder.

Aswe breathed a deep sigh, pressing a soft kiss goodbye into her daughter's hair, and she spoke her last. “Lexa.”


End file.
